Keeper of the Loom
by Xekstrin
Summary: Arygyn knows that Cyclonis is important to the future of the Atmos; he just doesn't know how. He begins a fruitless struggle to prevent her from becoming the witch who would destroy the world.
1. Chapter 1

**Part One: The Burial of the Dead**

**OoOoOo**

It's a dangerous, thin line he walks. He teeters once, staff in hand, and his cheek-splitting grin tightens and his eyes go wide, but he never stops. He tip toes along the tightrope, headed in one direction. One false move and the whole thing crumbles, and to lift his wings and take flight, to escape this endless razor thin line forever-

Well, that would be impossible. Furthermore he did not like pulling his roots out of the ground only to go inevitably finding another patch of soil to cling to.

You don't need to be a fortune teller to see that he, for the most part, is in love with every aspect of himself, and that arrogance will cost him dearly at some point in the future. Those who ever get to meet a skeelur fine them to be far too self-assured, but then, most people don't know what they do. What they're capable of. Whole worlds had fallen and given birth because of him.

Even they have rules, though. And though he knows his course, he doesn't have to like it all the time.

And sometimes he falls.

He waves his staff in front of him, a cloud of shimmering orange-and-purple light like a sheet before his eyes. One clawed hand waves in front of the mirage. He looks into that heap of broken images without permission or guidance from the other Skeelurs. He sees death, and he sees violence, and he sees _her_. The image snaps shut just before violet eyes turn to glare at him, so real he feels that Master Cyclonis can see him. For an instant, he feels she is strong enough to break the barriers of time and space and reach through to kill him for what he is about to do. There is no escape from those eyes, no relief-

Only shadow.

Problems were arising- or were going to arise- because of his involvement in this war. He knows there are many different ways this can happen. He is no more in charge of his own destiny than anyone else, and now the future of Atmos is blurry because he, sooner or later, is going to get involved. Heavily involved. That's against the skeelurs' rules.

Though the _specific _rules fluctuate due to the whims of the skeelurs, they are generally a group of peace keepers and servants of order versus the never ending chaos that constantly threatened all worlds.

But he is about to do something wrong.

He doesn't know if there are agents of chaos who work against the skeelurs. It's a theory that has no proof, but he believes every possibility, no matter how slight. Arygyn believes every idea is a real and present factor in everything that happens.

If there were agents of chaos out to destroy him, they are actively working against him at this very moment. There is mischief afoot, determined to make sure he tripped and fell and thus make the Atmos fall with him.

Atmos, it seems, depends on him to make the right choice, though for the love of him he has no idea when or where this decision would take place, or if any decision he makes would even make a difference. All he knows right now is that this girl is important. The only visions he had kept revolving back to her.

(_fear death by water_)

An itch begins, deep in his shoulder blades. His wings want to erupt and he wants to fly and escape, but the time for flight was not now.

The Skeelurs are not ready to depart this world, not just yet.

Not until Arygyn fixed whatever mess he hadn't yet created.

**OoOoOo**

This is the future: Aerrow is dead.

Well, tough. It's not a skeelur's job to care if a hero dies. Except it is.

This is the future: Aerrow wins.

This is the future: Nothing. All is gone. The world ends, and the skeelurs have failed.

"This is bigger than Atmos," Arygyn says, to no one but himself, ignoring the fact that when he does eventually meet Aerrow he will be charmed silly by the handsome little boy-man. He will anguish over the times that this crimson hero falls as sincerely and as sharply as any father would for his son. Dull purple eyes flicker over a landscape of alternate realities and different time flows. Claws trail along the lines, thin as spiderwebs and twice as complex, and he tries to make sense of them. Tears well as he follows his own line, somehow merged with Aerrow's and Cyclonis'.

Someone is unhappy. He feels it, but he doesn't know why.

Not yet.

He floats in the space between time and consciousness, a globe of darkness punctuated by glowing purple orbs, each displaying a different scene of possible futures. Leaning backwards, he propels himself through some unknown means, kicking off a nonexistent platform and flying through the abyss, eyes half-closed, and half-seeing.

But all he sees are wilted flowers.

**OoOoOo**

He appears one day in front of her without warning, a week and three days after her grandmother dies. She stands in silent contemplation of the space where the previous Empress' throne used to lie, her hands clasped in front of her, eyebrows slightly lifted in an expression akin to boredom. Raw emotion has been lost to her now, seeped away by hours of single-minded devotion and obsession. Though she should be working even now, an unexpected setback in the development of the Storm Engine has her at her wit's end.

Religion was never a major player in her upbringing. If anything, the Cyclonians practiced some form of ancestor worship, always striving to reach and exceed expectations laid down generations ago.

So she seems to pray to her grandmother, this little girl, though in reality she does not fathom what true prayer and worship might mean.

"What would you do?" she asks the air, speaking out loud to this empty space. "I need your guidance, Mama." The childhood nickname slips out; Cyclonis reprimands herself because there is no one there to do it for her. Not anymore.

No more childhood, not anymore. It might as well have never existed.

Defying all logic, though, there is an answer to her question in the emptiness of that room: "First off, I'd hire a decent bodyguard."

Fear, like electric spikes, erupt all over her body as she looks around for the source of the voice. The idea that she might be mad and hallucinating this quickly marches to the front of her mind but she waves it aside easily enough- even if she is mad she is still capable of following out her plans to perfection. So far any madness she might have was not a liability.

Reassuringly, or perhaps not, she has not conjured the voice out of thin air. There's a man there in the room with her, reclining against the wall. He wears purple and white, looking like some gypsy wizard or a minor court's jester. The window just above and behind him is open, though it is far too small for someone his size to squeeze through. He's tall and lanky- definitely Atmosian, those wispy-thin people with their delusions of heroics and knighthood. They are the true children here, Cyclonis knows- her empire has survived for much longer than their struggling republic.

Quickly assessing the danger she might be in, Cyclonis reaches within the depths of her robes and triggers a silent alarm. In less than a minute Talons will be swarming this room, but she does not panic or show any sign that she is ruffled at all by his appearance.

"I must congratulate you on getting this far into the castle," she tells the stranger, who is doubtless some Atmosian assassin. He would not be the first. "Dare I ask what you hoped to accomplish by doing so?"

The tall man- tall and old and ugly- straightens up and bows to her, lowering the hood of his clown's outfit as he does so. His hair must be painted with dyes; down the sides, a deep purple, and straight down the middle from his forehead down his back a vibrant green. "I simply wanted to extend my welcome to the new Empress. Long Live Cyclonia, Master."

Lightning flashed, but that's nothing new. There is always a storm in Cyclonia. But with the clap of thunder that followed directly after, the stranger had disappeared.

There was a potted plant on the floor where he had stood. It was a flowered plant, but the blooms were all in bud. After having multiple safety checks done on it in the days that followed, it was establish that this was simply a plant, nothing more. Not a trap, not a poison, not a hidden bomb. Just a plant.

She put it on her windowsill, hoping it would catch sunlight and thrive. The thought made her happy, though she couldn't exactly grasp why.

Three days later it was dead, and she tried not to take it as an omen of the future.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two: With a shower of rain**

**OoOoOo**

"There was a storm."

The master holds the plant forward, limp and dead, offering it to the skeelur. He's got a grin like a sunrise, lips stretched too far wide to be attractive, yet sincere enough to be appealing. "Drowned in the rain," he diagnoses, quickly trying to be somber as he takes the plant and nods, solemn.

_(Fear death by water-)_

Though she should call the guards on him, there's no threat in his voice, in his demeanor. She should be suspicious, of course, but she isn't. No one ever looked at her this way, smiling freely and without fear. Not since grandmother. Hoping to impress him, she pulls on the crystal shards embedded in the curtains, opening the room to a groggy after-storm sunrise.

Letting in the light.

"So sorry about the plant," she said, flicking her hand at it in a lofty, dismissive wave. "I've got a black thumb, you see."

"Not a problem, sweetheart. Once I gave it to you, it was yours to deal with as you wished." Setting it on her work station, he procures his staff with a flourish of unnecessary sparkles and pizzazz; one of the most powerful magic casters in the world pretending to be a two-bit wizard. Maybe in the end that's all he was, the way she pretended to be just an innocent girl to disarm those who would underestimate the master of Cyclonia. "Wanna see a trick?"

This is the second time this hack charlatan has weaseled his way to the very heart of her castle. If nothing else, he's earned her as a captive audience. However, she'd be damned before she lets him on to her grudging respect. Tipping her hand again, she pulls out a chair and sitting primly before him.

"Impress me."

A rubber yellow ball appears between his lanky digits, a clever bit of prestidigitation. He knows more than one kind of spell, then. He knows how to hide things in plain sight. How useful. If undistinguished. "Keep your eye on the birdie, doll," he says, sunlight dappling over his rolling fingers as it jumps between his fingers, and then a second ball, and then a third. Three primary colors. He tosses them in the air and claps both hands, adding a bit of power so that the sound ripples around the room and lingers; they don't fall back down.

That he would think such a rube circus act would actually impress her makes her give way; she cracks a smile. "Cute trick. But you didn't follow my orders. They were quite simple, Skeelur."

Bemused and just a little devious, he nods back to the potted plant. She follows his orders now, without meaning to, and her heart drops to see the wilted flowers in full bloom, the glossy leaves ripe enough to eat. "How'd you do that?" she demands, sitting straighter in her chair. This was no sleight-of-hand. To bring life and death, even to a small household potted plant, took a level of mastery that chilled her even as it brought the blood to the surface of her skin in fresh excitement.

The staff appears in his hands again, twirling like a baton as he rocks back on his heels with glee. "Didja like it?" he asks, letting out a honking laugh at her expense. "First rule of magic tricks, darlin', keep your audience's attention away from where the real work's happenin'." Arygyn takes a seat in front of her, rump resting on thin air, his elbow on the table and his chin in his palm. "So now that I have your attention," he says, "Would you like to learn a few of my secrets?"

Just like that, he had her. For a moment in time she was his little girl, as so many others had been his. Students and friends, partners and conspirators. The burning future lay quiet, for now, doused by the sprinkling of a summer shower and a little potted plant.

He could only hope he was doing the right thing.


End file.
